EASTER SONG

Easter Song


“Well, it’s in poetry that I find that that sense of the mystery of creation is at its most intense and most immediately palpable. It’s like I wrote it, but it wasn’t all of me that wrote it either. It is like something in me wrote it, which I don’t consciously control 100 percent.” Lee Tzu Pheng

I want to write a poem
where butterflies play hide and seek
in the garden. Where Lepidoptera words
flitting from flower scent to sunshine
sheen of tousled leaves coquettishly lead
you to a mandala of the mind.
Where winged images peep from behind
leaves to surprise you with more
than colors. Where wings beating
in the air is a metaphor
for chrysalis silence. Where the caterpillar’s
wriggling is a native samba.
Where the sunlight combing the shadows
discovers the newborn, poised to break
free from the cocoon, meditative antennae
catching for the first time the music
that has metamorphosed from silence.
Where winged creatures are not formalin-
preserved specimens in museums of natural
history but are framed by the mind, exhibited
in a gallery and viewed each time memory
walks through the door. Where I’m butterfly
feasting on a King’s supper, sleeping
the Sabbath quiet and waking each day
to a Easter Morning Song, which although
inaudible to others, is to me an anthem
that will last for eternity